Sons of Good Fathers
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Claire. Time for you to have a chat, you guys.


Super behind on everything because of finals. So, clearly, time for fic!

**Title**: Sons of Good Fathers  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar/Claire  
**Summary**: Time for you to have a chat, you guys.  
**Rating**: G  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x11  
**Word Count**: 1500  
**Notes**: For **sylaire_chall**'s challenge #5—Thanksgiving. Disclaimer: not American; totally butchering the prompt.

* * *

The virus had taken his eidetic memory away.

And though it technically hadn't been _his_, and though he'd secretly sort of hated it, the ability to remember, in graphic detail, hadn't exactly gone away.

He suspected it was Claire's fault. The synapses in his brain continuously connected and regenerated, and memories that should have faded, didn't.

"This is weird."

Sylar agreed.

"Especially since I think we're _exactly_ halfway between Pinehearst and Primatech," she said quietly, scanning the horizon.

He glanced at her, sitting primly on a cold park bench, and raised an indulgent eyebrow. "Literally or figuratively?"

She offered him a withering glare. "Yes, Sylar, I generally carry a tape measure with me."

His brow twitched. "I take it there's no point to this conversation, Claire."

She bristled, leaning on her knees and looking away from him. "There's still time."

Tired, he sighed. "For what?"

She turned her head slightly to look at him. "To do the right thing." Her eyes darted forward. "Don't turn me in."

He ignored her, staring at the dry leaves gathering around the bench. "How's your memory, Claire?"

Frowning, she pursed her lips. "Why, what did you do to my brain _now_?"

His lips curled. "I'm curious."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Is it okay if I check out of this conversation? Nudge me when Arthur shows up."

Sylar leaned back against the bench, one elbow resting on each side. "What were you doing this time last year?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged lightly. "My life before all the running and the scalping is sort of a blur."

He turned his head to observe her. "Indulge me, Claire."

"Okay, whatever," she sighed, annoyed. "Around noon, I had some leftover turkey." She paused, casually interested. "You?"

"Around noon," he answered calmly, "I dragged my first victim into the dumpster behind my shop."

Repulsed, she swallowed heavily and attempted to slide away from him as though the bench would magically extend to accommodate her.

In turn, Sylar tightened her invisible restraints.

She sighed in defeat, looked away, and mumbled a caustic, "Nice. Happy... day after Thanksgiving, Sylar."

He raised a questioning eyebrow. "What better time for a family reunion."

She gave him a disgusted look, but said nothing.

"I'm probably _'not family, though,'_ " he smiled, eyes dark.

Startled, she paled, eyes widening. "...wait, you can read thoughts now?"

"...mm," he lied, enjoying her discomfort.

Quickly, she looked away, excessively focused on an invisible spot on her laces.

"You could think in a language other than English, Claire," he suggested nonchalantly, running a finger up and down the metal curve.

Claire perked up, her expression the definition of intense concentration.

Sufficiently amused, Sylar gave her a moment, then pointed his chin at her. "Are you currently listing Mexican food?"

Claire grinned sheepishly, the soles of her sneakers scuffing against the gravel. "Three years of Spanish and all I can think of is _taco_ and _loco_. And Ricky Martin," she told him, then paused thoughtfully. "...you can't actually read my thoughts, can you?"

"No."

She shook her head with a huff, visibly irritated.

"But I know how you think, Claire," he added softly.

Her eyes met his. "Yeah, yeah, because we're so similar and you have that power that lets you see everyone's history and—whatever. I don't care." Her lips thinned. "You are to me as a negative particle is to a positive one."

"Are you prepping for the SATs?" he smirked as the wind picked up, scattering dead leaves by their feet.

"I _was_," she accused. "Until you dropped by my house a few weeks ago, looking for a snack."

Biting back a grin, he tilted his head. "Technically, Claire, positive and negative particles attract each other."

She hesitated, clearly revising her chemistry lessons. "I meant that... in... we're... I was trying to point out how _dissimilar_ we are, Sylar."

He returned the shrug. "Believe what you will."

With an exasperated little grunt, she muttered, barely audible, "Aside from our potential lineage, we're nothing alike."

Sylar disagreed, but kept quiet.

After a moment, she straightened her back, palms flat against the metal planks, and asked, "Why do you _want_ to be a Petrelli?"

"Why do you?"

Claire bit her lip, glancing away. "I don't want to be," she mumbled softly. "I just want to know that I... belong, I guess?"

Instinctively, Sylar glanced at her profile and the windblown curls framing it. "I used to want that, too."

She looked up, fairly surprised, but her teeth were bared. "Oh, right, I forgot. Mommy and Daddy didn't love you enough."

"You read my file."

It wasn't a question, and she didn't treat it as one. "Of course I did," she gave a vicious little nod. "Typical biography of a serial killer who's trying to be special so his mother would fall in love with him or something. Gross."

His invisible hold on her loosened. "I didn't want to be special, Claire."

She scoffed, scanning the deserted park. "Okay, whatever. I'm ready for Arthur to pick me up now."

Mostly unaware of the movement, Sylar placed a hand on her head, turning her face to look at him. "I wanted a family. A real one. With real holidays and real... feelings."

"I don't care," she hissed, swatting his hand away. "Do you think _my_ life was perfect?"

"Yes."

Taken aback, Claire took a moment to compose herself, then bared her teeth, narrowed her eyes, and launched into a furious rant. "You're right, _Sylar_, I have a pretty good memory. I remember every time my dad left me. Every holiday he missed. Every lie he told. Every lie I believed." She took a shaky breath, leveling her eyes with his. "Last year, when you were dragging people into dumpsters, I was jumping off _cranes_, so don't tell me—"

"Bennet has been a good father to you," Sylar interrupted darkly, clamping a hand over her mouth. "He would do anything for you. He _has_ done everything for you."

She pried his fingers off, features softening. "Forget it. You don't understand."

Briefly, he considered slicing her head open again, then exhaled, his fingers still in hers. "Are you jealous?"

Blinking, she muttered, "What?"

"Of Peter and Nathan," Sylar drawled, voice low and dangerous. "Of having big family dinners with Arthur and Angela. Of being a perfect little family that had no room for you?"

Claire's shoulders slumped. "They're not perfect."

"So the answer is yes."

She seemed to be sitting closer suddenly. "Are _you_ jealous?"

"Yes."

Her fingers gripped his tighter. "You know," she said bravely, but her voice shook a little. "I bet Arthur complained about the turkey being dry every year. "

Surprisingly, Sylar's lips quirked into a genuine smile. "And I bet Peter always bitched about the poor turkey having to die."

The corner of her lips twitched. "And Nathan was probably half in the bag by noon."

"And Angela quietly judged them all," Sylar concluded.

Grinning, Claire released his fingers, raising a cocky eyebrow. "Guess we didn't miss much."

Sylar enjoyed the silence for a while.

"If I let you go," he said eventually, as the sun began to set. "Where would you go?"

She contemplated for a long moment, then steeled her features. "I don't know. Somewhere far away from my family, so they can have a normal life?" She brought sad eyes to his. "But you won't let me go."

"No. I won't," he acknowledged, knee brushing against hers.

"Can we make a deal?" she asked reluctantly.

He scrutinized her for a moment, then gave a slight nod.

"Apparently," she began. "I'll become this... killer in the future."

Not as stunned as she seemingly hoped he'd be, Sylar cocked an eyebrow. "You are to me as a negative particle is to—?"

She cracked a smile. "Keep my dad safe," she continued. "My real dad."

Sylar kept his face expressionless. "Even though he missed Thanksgiving last year?"

She inclined her head. "Like you said... he's a good father. _I'm_ the problem."

Sylar rose, cracking his back. "Deal."

Resigned, Claire stood up. "You'll just conveniently forget this when it suits you, right?"

"Probably," he admitted, glancing away.

"Fair enough," she concluded, taking an involuntary step back as she noticed Arthur drawing closer. "I'll probably try to run anyway."

His fingers wrapped around her wrist as he straightened. "I probably won't try to stop you."

She gave him one last smirk before turning her eyes on Arthur. "Thanks, Sylar."

He looked straight ahead as he handed her over.

As holiday memories went, this one finally seemed real.

"Thank you, Claire."


End file.
